


I Wish We Could Talk Outside My Head

by ReverendRoach



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Self-Reflection, Sobriety is overrated, Stream of Consciousness, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26675521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReverendRoach/pseuds/ReverendRoach
Summary: Mistakes have been made. Klaus thinks things over in the bath til the water runs cold.





	I Wish We Could Talk Outside My Head

It’s an odd place to be.

The room is dim and subdued, soaked in light, stony blues and the very palest of yellows. It’s all too quiet to the untrained ear. There is a vague spark of life to be found there, just beneath the shallow breaths and that steady drip, drip, drip. The faucet isn’t leaking. It wouldn’t _dare_ , not in this house.

No, it’s just beads of condensation slipping from the silver tap, racing to match the pace of the droplets rolling down the mirror. The air hung heavy with moisture, like the entirety of the room had been swallowed by a stray rain cloud. Almost like the inside of a greenhouse.

_Almost._

It’s far too sterile, though. All silvery and polished, embraced within the faintest scent of bleach and iron and strawberry shampoo. It’s offensive to the very concept of growth. It’s a place for stagnation. Though, to offer credit where it is due, no other room in the academy seemed to offer a return to normalcy quite like the second-floor bathroom. After a long day ( _years_ ) of hard work ( _blood. bruises_.) it’s only natural for one to seek a place to retire ( _hide_ ) for an evening. A place to unwind ( _forget_ ).

The water is now a swirling pink, which is funny apparently, because Number Four laughs. It’s high and breathless, much like the man himself.

Despite the settling steam, the room is cold to the touch. That colourless tile taunted the fact with endless, silent jeers. It was eager to nip at his toes, patiently waiting for him to rise from his bath. But he does not serve the tile, so he remained, entirely lukewarm, half submerged. Klaus splayed and retracted his fingers along the edge of the tub, fine porcelain burning against pale skin. They’re nearly of the same shade, now. The last time Klaus was able to compete with that stark white had been years ago. Or was it mere months? He could not remember.

No matter, he recalled being disappointed to find that his skin seemed to lack the saturation to keep up with the glossy basin at some point. He hadn’t tanned or anything of the sort, it was just that, he saw himself become just a touch too _grey_. The saturation beneath his skin, once all shades of blue and red and violet and _jade_ , burned away. Burned away with the ends of cigarettes that he snuffed out under the lip of the tub. Burned away with the fire he covetously choked back from the lips of fine amber bottles and the mouths of smudged crystal tumblers. Burned away with the froth slipping about his tongue and teeth as he curled into himself beneath his bedframe on nights so cold, they scorched _hot_.

Ah, memories. How delightful it is to know oneself in the past tense. Nearly implies that there is a future tense to look forward to. But unlike the past, just about everything Number Four had ever tried to consider truthful in the future tense was shamefully false. So, he was not to think about the days to come, otherwise he’d be a liar, liar, _liar_. He hates it when they call him that. He’s not. Not anymore. But that doesn’t matter, because even if that was true (which it is not) there would not be any point in insisting so, because he had already earned the title. Liar, liar, pants on fire (haha).

Pants on fire. _Pants on fire!_

Klaus grinned. Genuine. Tearful.

The Séance quite liked his pants that way. His hotpants, specifically. This was one thing that Number Four could pull off. He’s been told so. It makes him happy. Makes him proud. In fact, if he were awake or coherent enough to hear just how _often_ kind strangers would comment on his hotpants, Klaus would be so full of delight that he may get a big head about it. So maybe he’s glad that he doesn’t hear it every night ( _he hears other things_ ). He _is_ glad that people do notice, though. Glad they care. Glad they appreciate how he’s gone and dolled himself up with smudged out eyeliner and shirts that are hardly shirts at all and shoes with the soles so worn that they shine in the sunlight when he’s face down in the park at 7am with nothing else on but his _hotpants._

Oh. Wait. That’s right. Klaus did not actually own a pair of hotpants anymore. A few weeks back, that loss was certainly a point of hazy contention while arguing with thin air on nights awake in drafty alleyways, though their disappearance remains a mystery.

It is not uncommon for people to lose track of their belongings, Number Four assured himself. He was okay with this. He was not good at staying organized, so he rarely kept any belongings that he could not store inside his coat or under his tongue. He was just one of those people, really. It was a quirk. It made him unique. A Whole Person. It was a funny thing. Silly Klaus, he’s misplaced his socks! His wallet! His prescription! His head! Funny, funny.

As you can see, Number Four is honest with himself.

The bath has gone cold. Pure ice water, cold on cold on cold; no one ought to sit in the tub so long it turns arctic. Klaus sighed, long and heavy as he rested his cheek against the porcelain and stared blankly down into the white floor. The colourless tile glared up with sharp satisfaction, twisted into a gleaming set of teeth. Bared, smiling eagerly. Shivers lick their way up and down Number Four’s bruised neck. With an indignant huff, he pulled himself over the edge of the tub, shakily bracing himself against the towel rack as his soles burned against the frigid floor. Round, pink puddles welled up around his heels as he fussed with a towel in his hair. The chill bit at his skin like a hungry swell of carrion birds, nips and tears into his flesh, relentless.

Eyes drawn up to the mirror on the wall, green met green. Instead of feeling lively like grass or spring, it felt like mould. Aged rot. Number Four almost cringed away at the sight: Sharp, dark features framing skin dull as tombstones and eyes green with decay _and_ —No, no. He would not look away. He was not a coward.

Hesitantly edging closer to the mirror, Number Four braced one hand on the sharp silver border. His other hand moved shakily to the surface, targeting a lingering blot of steam that blurred out his reflection. He brought one finger up to the glass and tracked it through the moisture. He drew back, his features overtaken by a mawkish grin. The mirror smiled back, lines shaky, looking quite like it might cry. Klaus knew the feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> Been binging older UA fics. Lord have mercy.
> 
> Heeeeeeere is baby's first fanfic. This was cool to write, I think. Turns out, I really like those obnoxious run on sentences when I’m geeked. Good to know. If you’re confused about the tense and structure just know that I am too.  
> Feel free to drop sum feedback if you absolutely hated it. Or if you just want to tickle my fragile ego. Or if you just love Klaus like pretty much everyone ever.


End file.
